


A hand to hold, A hand to lose

by animurder



Category: Grand Theft Auto V, Grand Theft Auto V RP, NoPixel RP, Twitch - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Drabble, Feelings Realization, M/M, Near Death Experiences, NoPixel - Freeform, NoPixel RP - Freeform, Twitch RP (Grand Theft Auto), hasMods, widepeepoSad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29303352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animurder/pseuds/animurder
Summary: Based off the NoPixel RP on Feb 8, 2021 where the car blew up at the gas station with Don Pecerino, Buddha, and Tony.----“Oh my god, Tony!”Don Pecerino knelt down to grab the body of his friend in his lap, searching his broken body for pieces of life. He tilted up the head of the battered man, trying to find a hint of consciousness in the Italian mans' expression.“Tony man, s-stay with me!”
Relationships: Tony Corleone/Antonio Donato Pecorino
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	A hand to hold, A hand to lose

It happened in a flash.

That is to say, it started with the slow-motion catastrophe of light, an assault on his eyes, pupils struggling to dilate. It moved onward into blankness, violating brightness that did not cease even behind closed lids, and at this stage it remained until red and black spots bloomed and popped in all fields of vision.

The darkness after was what was slowest. It eased into bones with his own false sense of security guiding it in. It took him down like a bullet after morphine, gently, gently, coaxing the world away.

The event happened both slowly and all-at-once. The fire, the explosion, the scent of charcoal, rubbish, and gasoline, filling up his lungs.

Don stumbled his way across the gas station parking lot, his own reflection eyeing him in the fiery brightness, feet shaky underneath the weight of his body.

That’s when he saw it – all of them, all three of his friends, out cold in various poses, sprawled out on the concrete cement.

There’s a moment in between comprehension and realization. A moment of complete silence. A moment where the brain constructs everything – everything that could have been and could still be, every outcome and every possibility. Every possible future and every path not taken.

It was here – in this dark, sightless place, that Don found himself standing – out of his own body, looking down on the wreckage, on his friends.

_It wasn’t so bad here,_ he thought.

Nothing could happen – nothing good, nothing bad. He had no realities to had to face – no worry for money or for his friends lives.

A raspy cough, like an echo in the wind, broke him out of his trance.

_Tony._

He lurched to body of his best friend, discarded and limp on the cement, a rag doll placed in a furrowed position. The blood on the concrete was glistening, illuminated by the florescent gas station lighting, and in its reflection he could see himself. Or at least a version of himself, hysteric, frenetic behind his wide-opened eyes.

“Oh my god, Tony!”

He knelt down to grab the body of his friend in his lap, searching his broken body for pieces of life. He tilted up the head of the battered man, trying to find a hint of consciousness in his expression, “Tony man, s-stay with me!”

A cough, weak and resigned. The kind of noise that engines give before they die out. The kind of noise that caused Don’s blood to run cold.

“Tony, please!”

Don met Tony’s gaze, the only part of him that still, even in this beaten and battered state, was razor sharp, just as steady and impenetrable as always, warm golden-brown eyes that seemed to look _through_ him.

But eyes had not been gold, they had simmered in florescent hazel, they had burned, they had _burst_.

And in their gaze he could see himself, could see _them._

_“D.. Don”_

He spoke the word silently into the wind, like a prayer, his distinctive accent echoing in his chest like a heartbeat.

He didn’t know when this had happened, but either way he found himself on the cement, his friends’ broken body in his arms, his hand clutching onto Tony’s bloodied and burnt one.

He reached, trying to find the words between the shrieking in his mind.

“You… you can’t do this,” Don eventually settled on. He’d never been a poet, nor particularly well spoken.

 _You can’t leave me here_. _You can’t leave me here, without you._

Don’s words sunk into his gut like a stone, and Tony’s gaze burned into the night sky behind them.

“S…sorry Don, wa...”

A cough, not feeble like before, but one that shook his whole body, emerging from deep in his lungs and shuddering through his bones like an earthquake. It shook his whole body, angles bending like a paper plane, until he was out of breath lips pursed breathlessly. He paused and took a deep breath, barely able to open his mouth.

“..wasn’t my choice.” He finished, his ever-present crooked smile plastered on his face, mischief covered five layers deep in grief and regret shining in his eyes.

_I don’t want to leave you. I never did._

Vaguely, Tony hears a cough and an accented voice mumbling something – Buddha.

Don, surprised to hear another one of his friends alive, quickly makes his way towards the Chinese man whose body was mangled and trapped inside the car, gently placing Tony down and pulling out his phone to call an ambulance.

 _Damn,_ Tony though, the hazy blackness swimming behind his eyes, threatening to consume him.

He looked at his now empty hand, bloodied and outstretched on the pavement before him, remembering the warm grasp of Don’s fingers through his.

_My hand’s so cold now._

Then the hazy blackness flooded through his vision and everything went black.

\--

Flashing lights and voices above, a police station, a hospital?

He’s lying down on something considerably more comfortable than the concrete, the fluorescent lights flooding his vision while his focus begins to sharpen. People with masks and scrubs, Doctors and nurses he suspects, above him, prodding him. He can’t move, can’t do much of everything, but he can feel another presence near him. Not one of the detachment and clinical observation like the doctors and nurses, but one that’s radiating grief and hope and heartache from his spirit like a sun. He doesn’t get a chance to look and see who it is, see the people and procedures going on around his bedside before the pain overwhelms him and he’s out cold again.

But his hand. His hand is warm.

**Author's Note:**

> even in a video game... he can't keep getting away with it hasMods hasMods hasMods
> 
> (This is what happens when you have a minor in literature, a bottle of wine and Hasan's stream open on a Monday night Sadge)


End file.
